Nesta and Elain ending their journeys living at Feyre’s home surrounded by Feyre’s friends that will always side with Feyre over them is not a happily ever after for any of them be serious
i saw someone saying on twitter about a woman who said that her boyfriend was so nervous when propose her that he forgot everything and ended up just getting on his knees saying “please”.
i hope every writer who reads this makes the best of it
warnings & tags .ᐟ: sfw. established relationship. pure fluff. no use of y/n. written with fem! reader in mind. no reader description. maybe ooc? no beta reader. mild language. stupid jason. tiny bit: lovesick Jason. Still learning how to tag. English is not my first language.
a little sticky note .ᐟ: I thought this tiny tumblr post is as cute as a bug's ear. i had to give it a shot (i tried my best) ;P. please like and comment if you enjoy this tiny ficlet. anywayyyyssss enjoy ૮ ྀིᴗ͈ . ᴗ͈ ྀིა bruce wayne version here.
word count: approx 994
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: Jason has been in a relationship for a long time with the reader, she is the perfect woman for him. Now he wants to take the next step, but proposing seems so muuuuuuuch harder than imagined.
Jason nervously toyed with the small box in his trouser pocket. It was perhaps the size of a peculiar walnut, yet despite its light weight, it felt so heavy in his hand. He let the lid snap open briefly, tracing the delicate stone with the pad of his thumb, before gently closing it gently.
Or perhaps he thought he was closing the lid gently.
He cursed softly when the stupid lid pinched his thumb. Surely it couldn't be that hard - why was he worrying? He didn't even shit his pants when he had the Black Mask standing right in front of him. But that hadn't been Jason. It had been Red Hood who faced the frightening reality of Gotham.
Maybe that was a lie. Maybe he was shitting his pants a little. He took a deep breath before exhaling slowly; his sweaty hands were already getting on his nerves.
For weeks - if not months - he had planned this evening. Down to every teeny tiny element. Meticulously: every single detail, every single scenario. A little too Bruce for his taste. But good God, what would he do if this evening went wrong? He would never be able to handle loosing his darling.
And how long had she been with him by now? No one would put up with his problems for five years unless they wanted to get married. Right?
He tugged at his shirt. He was Jason Peter Todd, for fuck's sake! Who wouldn't want to marry him, right? Right? He rose from his chair and cleared his throat.
Could it really take that long just to wash one's hands?
He turned in a semicircle, his heart pounding in his throat. What the hell was he doing here? He tugged once more at the table decorations and stared down at the bustling streets of Gotham. Up here on the roof, it almost seemed peaceful, silent. The small garden radiated an almost soothing atmosphere.
Dinner went well. Not just well or good, it was great. He had noticed that she had done her nails. Had she, perhaps, suspected after all what his plans for today was? That was a good sign, right? A woman caring about her nails, maybe even expecting a proposal.
His loud thoughts came to a halt when he heard the door open. Seeing her step out into the soft light of the lanterns (which he had lit specifically for the occasion) in her pretty dress, with those stupid kitten heels that somehow turned him crazy. Perhaps it was the way her legs stretched just a tiny bit more, that struck him as even more alluring.
She had reapplied her glossy lipstick. A broad smile was on her face as she walked towards him.
" 'M sorry, that took longer than expected."
He hummed in acknoledgement. He stepped a tiny bit closer and took her hand in his. Slowly, he rubbed his thumb over her soft knuckles.
"Did you like it?" he asked slowly, leaning down to plant a kiss on her cheek. "The food, I mean. I also have dessert downstairs in the fridge."
She smiled and leaned slightly toward him, nodding slowly. The meal had been simple. Jason Todd’s culinary skills left something to be desired - but pasta al pomodoro with Parmesan? That was something he aced.
"Hmmm, nothing compares to Jason Tood's spaghetti."
For a second he just stared at her and runs a hand through his hair.
"Great, good," he murmured, playing with the small box in his trouser pocket. "Fantastic."
She glanced at him, somewhat confused, and blinked toward his trouser pocket.
"You've been fiddling with your hand in your pocket all evening. What's in there?" she snorted, reaching out to tug his wrist curiously. He wriggled gracefully and gently out of her reach and chuckled softly. A tiny, displeased sound left his throat, but still soft. "It's a secret," he grunted.
"You're stupid," she said, her gaze following his. He took a glimpse at her so gently through his long lashes, as if she herself had hung the stars in the evening sky. He kissed her again on her temple.
"Wanna know?"
His words were barely more than a hum. The moment was perfect. They stood close to one another, amidst that familiar banter that so often passed between them. He had written a text of epic length, spanning from the very first moment he had laid eyes on her, and secretly, deep down, knew that she would become his wife.
Even though his mind told him that he shouldn't open up. Who would want to marry a man like Jason? With his many issues and mild aggression problems? From their first date right up to their first fight, after which he spent an entire evening in his apartment (before they moved in together) crying his eyes out.
He slowly sank to his left knee, yet did not let go of her hand. He watched as her eyes widened and her own hands grew warm. His own heart pounded in his throat. He felt as though he could not breathe. And not a single word of his memorized monologue would come to mind.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out except a hoarse "I-" His hands were sweaty, trembling slightly as, with his free hand, he pulled the ring from his trouser pocket; and nearly dropped it onto the concrete of the roof.
"Sweetheart-"
He never claimed to be a nervous wreck or a helpless simp. But the way she looked at him, so full of anticipation, while barely holding back her own tears of joy… and the ring, looking a little lost inside its box, sparkled in the soft glow of the lanterns.
"Please...", he almost whimpered.
She laughed softly through a few tears that escaped her eyes. She herself couldn't manage to utter a coherent sound - only a wild nod - before leaping into his arms and sobbing, in broken gasps,
you know what, fuck it be free, keep reading that bad fan fiction, keep writing that bad fanfiction, keep using y/n, keep staying up to 4 a.m reading x reader, to be cringe is too be free
⟢ synopsis. what was supposed to be a night for work takes an unexpected turn when you run into clark kent—alone at a restaurant, waiting for a date who seems to have no intention of showing up. poor guy.
⟢ contains. clark kent x reader, ots and lots of fluff! it is one of the more romantic things i have written, cute blind date, characters are dumb, set up date, lois is a mastermind, i do not know anything about journalism, pinning from both sides but too shy to do anything about it.
⟢ word count. 5.8k+
⟢ author’s note. i can’t get this man outta my head pls help me 😣 the voices!!! also feel free to imagine this as any clark (and i mean any i swear: comic book, adventures with superman, tom welling, david corenswet, henry cavill, or even reeve)
“Hey, you’re gonna hate me but I’m gonna be like 10 minutes late. You go ahead and check in and order. The table should be under my name. I’ll pay the bill. I’m so sorry!”
You weren’t exactly surprised when the message lit up your phone screen. You rolled your eyes, exhaling through your nose. If there was one thing you knew about Lois Lane, it was that urgency wasn’t always her strong suit—unless it involved an exclusive scoop or a headline-worthy disaster with Superman. Still, considering this was supposed to be a work-related meeting, you had half-expected her to arrive early, not leave you waiting.
You typed out a quick reply, telling her it was fine when it really wasn’t, telling her to take her time when you wished she wouldn’t. Then, slipping your phone back into your bag, you made your way toward the hostess stand.
“Table under the name Lane?” you asked, offering a polite smile.
The hostess nodded, flashing you a warm smile in return. “Right this way.”
As she led you through the restaurant, you took in your surroundings with subtle curiosity. The place was charming—exactly the kind of cozy, floral-accented spot Lois would dig up for an ‘informal work chat.’ The kind of place that felt like it had stories tucked between its soft candlelit tables and ivy-draped walls.
You tried to dress the part, too—professional but approachable. You weren’t here for a casual dinner, after all. This meeting was supposed to be a quick sit-down with a lawyer Lois had arranged, someone who could confirm a few key details for a piece you were both working on. A case involving a corporation and some shady legal maneuvering—Lois had the sources, but you were the one handling the research. You’d spent the past week buried in legal jargon, piecing together statements and contracts, and now you just needed a professional to verify what you suspected before the article could go to print.
By the time you reached your table, you were already running through the questions in your head, mentally preparing for the conversation. The restaurant wasn’t grand, but it was stunning in its own way. You admired the decor, taking in the quiet hum of conversation and the delicate clink of silverware.
At least if Lois was late, you had time to go over your notes one more time.
You ran your hands over your portfolio, smoothing the cover absentmindedly as you flipped through the pages. The neatly typed notes stared back at you, but none of the words really registered. All you could do was wait—for the lawyer, for Lois, for some sign that this wasn’t going to be a complete waste of time.
With a sigh, you reached for the glass of wine you ordered a few minutes ago, taking a slow sip before setting it back down. You had to pace yourself, or you’d drain the whole thing before anyone even showed up. You checked your phone, hoping for an update, but the screen remained frustratingly blank.
Disappointed, you rested your chin on your hand, eyes drifting across the restaurant. The warm glow of golden light reflected off polished wood and delicate floral centrepieces, the soft murmur of conversation blending with the occasional clink of silverware. Your waiter had already stopped by twice, politely offering more appetizers while you tried not to look as painfully alone as you felt. If they came by again, you weren’t sure if you’d accept out of politeness or embarrassment.
And then, just as you took another sip of wine, a familiar figure walked through the entrance.
Clark Kent.
You blinked, watching as the hostess led him inside, guiding him through the rows of neatly arranged tables. Even from where you sat, you recognized the way he carried himself—like he was constantly trying to shrink his presence, shoulders slightly hunched, movements careful and deliberate. It was ironic, really, considering how much space he naturally took up. Clark was tall, broad-shouldered, and impossible to miss, yet he carried himself like he didn’t want to be noticed.
You knew him, but not really.
Not as much as you want to.
You were office acquaintances at best—two reporters who shared the same workplace, desks across from each other, but rarely the same conversations. There had been moments, though. Fleeting ones. Catching his lingering glances during late nights at the Daily Planet, both of you working in near silence, save for the tapping of keyboards. A handful of polite exchanges over the coffee machine, his voice always gentle, soft-spoken. And then, of course, there were the times someone would call out "Hey, Smallville!" across the office, earning a sheepish smile from Clark as he adjusted his glasses and ducked his head.
He looked nice tonight. Not too different from his usual work attire, but more relaxed. A crisp button-up, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal a strong line of his forearms, dress pants fitted just right. He had forgone the tie, leaving the top button undone. Simple, but put-together. Effortless in a way that shouldn’t have been so charming, but somehow was.
And then you realized the hostess was leading him closer.
You quickly dropped your gaze, staring into your half-empty wine glass like it suddenly held the secrets of the universe. The last thing you wanted was to be caught staring, especially while sitting alone, nursing a drink, and very clearly sulking.
Maybe, just maybe, if you looked busy enough, you could avoid drawing any attention at all.
And for a moment, it worked.
You picked up your phone again, checking the time for what had to be the hundredth time that night. With a little too much urgency, you started to type out a message to Lois—something casual, something that wouldn’t sound desperate, something that would make it seem like you weren’t upset about currently sitting alone in a nice restaurant, swirling the last remnants of your wine waiting for her to get there. You were so focused on forming the perfect text that you almost missed it—
Your name.
Spoken softly, but clear. Familiar.
Your fingers hesitated over the keyboard. The voice had a weight to it, warm and steady, like someone genuinely surprised but pleased to see you. You swallowed and glanced up, feigning a search for the source before your gaze finally landed on Clark.
He wasn’t seated directly beside you but rather at the table across, angled just enough that you had to turn your head slightly to meet his eye. His lips curled into a sheepish smile, glasses slipping just a little down the bridge of his nose before he quickly pushed them back up again.
“Hi.”
That was all. Just hi. Simple, unassuming, but it made something settle in your chest, something you hadn’t even realized was tense.
You couldn’t bite back the smile forming on your own lips. “Hi, Clark.”
“Hey.”
A kind man with few words.
Though you’d heard him talk endlessly before, especially with Lois—deep in discussion, debating headlines, getting lost in conversations about ethics and reporting. But with you, it was always something short and sweet. A few words here and there. And yet, even the simplest conversations had a way of lingering. Would it be silly to admit that your brief, slightly awkward chats with Clark kind of made your day? Even when it was just him asking to borrow an extra pen?
God, you felt like a teenager again, having a crush on a classmate.
You watched as he rubbed at his cheek, the scruff there catching the soft glow of the restaurant lighting. His pointer finger rested idly at the seam of his lips, and you forced yourself to focus—not to stare at his mouth, not to let your gaze linger anywhere it shouldn’t.
He was your coworker, for fuck’s sake.
A really pretty one.
A really kind, really good-looking coworker.
You exhaled lightly, pressing your fingertips against the stem of your glass as if that might ground you. “It’s nice to see you.” The words came out before you could stop them, but they were true. It was nice.
It was almost like he perked up at that, his posture straightening just a little. “Yeah, great to see you too. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I... I could say the same.” Your cheeks were starting to hurt from how much you were smiling. You tried to temper it, but it was hard when Clark Kent was looking at you like that—all honey-eyed.
“Are you here for work?” he asked, casting a pointed look at the portfolio by your hands, stacked neatly beside your drink.
You glanced down at it as if you had momentarily forgotten it was there. “Um, yeah. I’m meeting with a source, so... they should be here any minute.”
Clark’s brows lifted slightly. “It’s your story on LexCorp, right?”
Your fingers, which had been absently tracing the condensation on your glass, paused. “Yeah, it is actually.” You blinked at him, a little surprised. “How’d you know?”
His smile was almost bashful, his hand brushing the back of his neck in that way he always did when he was being modest. “Oh, I just remember you mentioning it a few days ago. It’s a great story.”
Something in your chest tightened—not in a bad way, just in a way that made you feel warm all over. You hadn’t expected him to remember, let alone bring it up. The conversation you’d had at work had been so brief, just an offhand remark about how you were stepping outside your usual comfort zone. No one else had really asked you about it since.
“You think?” You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “I thought it was kind of a stretch. I mean, like—a stretch from what I usually write, you know? I don’t really deal with politics and corporate stuff and all that.”
Clark shook his head, that gentle, reassuring look in his eyes making it impossible not to believe him. “I’m sure it’ll be great. You’re an amazing writer.”
You were smiling even wider now. Compliments weren’t uncommon at the Daily Planet—people gave each other nods of approval, a “good job” here and there. But Clark said it like he meant it, like he had read your work, thought about it, believed in it.
It reminded you of the time he had quietly left a sticky note on your desk after an article of yours had been rushed to print. Really great work on this one! -CK. You’d found it hours later, after everyone had gone home. It had been such a small thing, but you’d kept the note tucked inside your notebook anyway.
You felt your cheeks warm. “Thanks, Clark. I think you’re a great writer too.”
He ducked his head slightly, smiling. “Thank you.”
There was a beat of silence, not awkward, just something familiar to the pauses between you two at the office. Expect this time you didn’t have any work to distract yourself with. You hesitated before finally breaking it.
“If you don’t mind me asking… what’re you doing here?”
“I, uh… I have a date, actually.”
“Oh.”
It wasn’t a big deal. It shouldn’t have been a big deal. But for some reason, you felt your stomach drop slightly, and you almost wanted to smack yourself in the head for not catching on sooner. Of course, he was here on a date, looking like that—all charming and shy.
He even smelled good, like fresh linen and something warm, something undeniably Clark.
“I know how it looks,” he started, and you noticed the way his shoulders began to hunch in on themselves like he was trying to make himself smaller. “Feels strange. I don’t think I’ve been dating since college.”
You let out a breath of amusement, nodding slowly. “Wow. Uh—good for you, though. I’m happy for you.”
“Yeah, I mean…” He hesitated, then glanced up at you, a little sheepish. “Can I be honest?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing. It’s a blind date, so I have no idea what this person looks like or who they are.”
You blinked. “You don’t know anything?”
“They’re a friend of Lois.” He exhaled lightly, shaking his head. “But that’s as much as I got.”
“Oh.” Your lips parted, then closed. “I’m sure you’ll do fine, Clark.” You shot him a small, hopefully reassuring smile. “I’ll be here for moral support.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “You’ve got your thing to worry about.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t help a friend out too.”
The words left your mouth before you had a chance to really think about them. Friend. You wondered if you could even call yourselves that. You were more acquaintances if anything—a friend of a friend. But Clark always did little favours for you, and he was always kind to you.
Like the time he had grabbed you a coffee when you’d been stuck in a seemingly endless editorial meeting, dropping it off at your desk without a word. Just a small smile, a quiet “figured you could use one.”
Or the time he’d helped you carry an entire box of research binders up three flights of stairs because the elevator was down. He had done it without hesitation, without you even asking, took it from your hands like it was weightless.
Then there was the time he had lent you his jacket when an assignment had left you stranded in the rain. It had been late, the Daily Planet nearly empty, and you had been standing by the windows, arms wrapped around yourself, shivering slightly as you tried to figure out how to make it home without getting completely drenched. Clark had passed by, paused, then shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders before you could protest. “Just give it back tomorrow,” he’d said.
But it wasn’t just him.
You had done things for him too.
The time you had stayed late to help him rework an article after an editor had torn through it with a red pen, sitting beside him as the newsroom emptied, tossing ideas back and forth until it finally felt right. He had looked at you then, something warm in his eyes, and said, “I owe you one.”
Or the time he had misplaced his glasses—how he had checked every possible spot, growing more and more flustered, only for you to walk over and pluck them from where they had been resting atop his head. You had laughed, shaking your head as you handed them back. He had gone pink in the ears, mumbling something about being forgetful, but the way he had smiled after made you think he didn’t mind the teasing.
Then there was the time you had covered for him when he had mysteriously disappeared right before a meeting. Lois had been looking for him, impatient and muttering about how he always seemed to vanish at the worst times. You had lied—just a small one. Said he had mentioned stepping out for a quick errand, and that he’d be back soon. You weren’t sure why you had done it.
Helping him out never hurt. So it shouldn’t hurt one more time.
Well, maybe it would. Just a little bit.
It might hurt your pride, mostly.
“Besides,” you continued, “I’ve been here for almost twenty minutes and no one’s showed up.”
“That’s... odd.”
“I know,” you muttered, glancing at your phone again, the screen glowing with no new notifications. You hesitated, thumb hovering over your messages before sighing and picking it up. “Can you excuse me for a second?”
“Of course,” Clark said, ever patient, though his brows knit together slightly in concern.
You slid out of your seat, weaving through the dimly lit restaurant. The warm hum of conversation filled the air, glasses clinking, silverware scraping against plates. A jazz melody played softly from the speakers, almost drowned out by the occasional burst of laughter from a nearby table. You stepped toward the front, near the entrance, where it was quieter, and pressed the phone to your ear.
Lois hadn’t answered your last two—three?—messages. You tried calling her once. The line rang and rang, then went to voicemail. You exhaled sharply and called again, tapping your fingers against the wooden counter near the hostess stand.
On the last ring, she finally picked up.
"Hello-?"
“Where are you?” You didn’t bother hiding the frustration in your voice, pacing a little near the door.
"I'm... on my way, I swear."
“You said that almost half an hour ago, Lois.”
"I know, I know—I’m sorry. I was just about to call—"
You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling through your teeth. “And the lawyer, do you know when they’ll get here?”
A pause.
"I… I don’t know."
Your stomach dropped. “You don’t know?”
"No… now that I think about it… I don’t think I confirmed a time."
“Lois,” you breathed, dragging a hand down your face.
"I’m sorry. Maybe we should rain check. I’ll leave them a message or something and we can do this another day."
You glanced back toward your table, then toward Clark, who was politely minding his own business, idly staring at his menu. Your eyes flickered to your untouched portfolio, the very reason you had come out tonight in the first place.
“I need the papers approved by Wednesday.”
"And it’s Saturday night. You have plenty of time."
“This is rich coming from you,” you deadpanned, rubbing your temple.
"I know, just… maybe it’s a sign you gotta take things slow. You know, focusing on yourself instead of work. Maybe you should go to a club or something."
You scoffed, barely biting back an incredulous laugh. “Lois… this fucking sucks.”
"I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s all my fault, okay? I’ll take you out tomorrow for brunch, swear on that. I promise. And I’ll transfer you for whatever you order tonight. Keep the receipt and give it to me."
You sighed, glancing down at your shoes. “I’m just gonna go home.”
"What? And waste a perfectly good night? You should stay out, meet new people, socialize with things that aren’t your laptop. Doesn’t that sound nice?"
You exhaled, staring blankly at the floor tiles. “I think a movie from my bed sounds really nice.”
"I’m not even gonna fight you on this."
“Bye, Lois.”
"Bye. Love you."
You ended the call with a quiet sigh, lingering in place for a moment, letting the frustration settle. You had spent the entire day mentally preparing for this meeting, running through questions, making sure every document was in order. Now, all of it felt like wasted energy.
With another steadying breath, you pushed off the pillar you had been leaning against, shoulders still tight with frustration, and made your way back to your table. The restaurant hadn’t gotten any quieter in your absence—if anything, the crowd had only grown as the night grew longer.
Clark glanced up as you returned, and the way his expression softened told you everything—he didn’t even need to ask how the call had gone. He just knew.
Still, before he could say anything, you beat him to it. “Your date’s not here yet?” You sank back into your seat, brushing a stray napkin aside as if the small action would help ground you.
Clark shook his head, and he didn’t seem too disappointed. “No, not yet.” He tilted his head slightly, studying you in that quiet, observant way of his. “Is everything alright?”
You blinked at him, still half in your own thoughts. “Hmm?”
“The phone call,” he clarified, “you seem… a little… annoyed.”
That was putting it lightly.
He hesitated, like he wasn’t sure if he should push further, then asked, voice gentle, “Do you want to talk about it?”
The simplicity of it—the way he just offered, no pressure, no expectations—unravelled some of the tension in your chest.
“I don’t wanna bother you about my stuff,” you said honestly.
“It’s no bother.”
You glanced up at him, at the unwavering patience in his expression. “You’re really sweet, Clark. You know that, right?”
A faint pink dusted the tips of his ears. “I wouldn’t say that…” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck.
“It’s in your nature?” you teased.
He let out a small, awkward laugh, shaking his head. “I definitely wouldn’t say that either.”
That made you smile—something small, something real.
“Well, it’s true,” you insisted. “Must’ve been the way you were raised.”
“Must’ve been.”
Before you could say anything else, a waiter arrived, carefully setting a starter plate and a drink down in front of Clark. He thanked her politely, offering a small nod before she walked away.
“I, uh…” He gestured to the plate. “I ordered some nachos if you want some.”
You raised a brow. “Shouldn’t those be for your date?”
He gave you an easy, lopsided smile. “They won’t have to know.”
A small chuckle slipped out before you could stop it. “Thanks.”
“Of course.”
The nachos were surprisingly good, crisp and warm under the layer of melted cheese, but you barely tasted them. Instead, your focus kept drifting—to Clark, to your phone, to the door.
At first, you thought about calling it a night. You could have told Clark you were heading home, and he probably would have understood, probably would have even offered to walk you to your car or wait with you for an Uber. But something stopped you.
Maybe it was the way he seemed at ease, talking to you like there wasn’t anywhere else he’d rather be. Maybe it was how easy it was to talk to him tonight, without work looming over you, without deadlines keeping your conversations clipped and efficient. Or maybe—maybe it was the nagging feeling in your gut that kept telling you he was waiting on someone who wasn’t going to show.
You hated that thought.
You didn’t say anything, though, not when another ten minutes passed, not when he checked his phone for the fourth—or was it fifth?—time. You just sat with him, keeping him company, even if you dreaded the moment someone else walked through those doors.
Clark kept insisting his date would be there soon. But every time he said it, the confidence in his voice waned.
By the time another twenty minutes passed, you were sitting with your phone open in your lap, ready to call an Uber. You should go home. It had been a long day, and you weren’t exactly in the mood to be out any more. But you hesitated when Clark spoke again.
“They should be here any minute now,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.
You glanced up at him, watching the way his brows pinched slightly as he checked his phone again.
He had said that before. More than once.
You were starting to feel bad for him.
You couldn’t imagine what it felt like to get stood up for a date (work was something else you could get over by tonight but a date?)—to wait around, watching the minutes tick by, hoping that maybe, just maybe, the person you were waiting for was running late instead of ignoring you altogether. And worse, you were starting to get peeved. How could anyone ghost Clark Kent?
But you didn’t say anything. Because he didn’t seem upset.
Or maybe he was just pretending not to be.
Either way, you didn’t want to remind him of the rejection. If he was pushing through it, then so were you.
It wasn’t until another thirty minutes flew by—until the sky outside had fully darkened, the city lights reflecting off the windows—that you finally exhaled and set your phone down.
“My source isn’t coming.”
Clark blinked at you, pulling his gaze away from the door. “Oh?”
“Yeah, there was a mix-up with the times or something.” You waved it off like it was no big deal, even though frustration still sat heavy in your chest. You weren’t nearly as mad as you had been earlier, but you had still wasted your night on something that should have been simple.
Clark studied you for a moment, then gave a small, almost amused huff. “Looks like we’re both out of luck then.”
You watched as his gaze flickered back toward the entrance, and then, after a beat, he sighed.
“I don’t think my date’s coming either.”
Your stomach twisted.
“I’m sorry, Clark,” you said, and you meant it.
“Don’t be,” he told you, and before you could say anything else, he was already flagging down the waiter, asking for the bill. Then, as casually as if he were asking about the weather, he turned back to you and said, “Wanna get out of here?”
You blinked. “And go where?”
He shrugged, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Anywhere. I don’t mind.”
And somehow, that was how you ended up walking down the streets of Metropolis, shoulder to shoulder with Clark Kent.
The night air was crisp, cool enough that you tugged your coat tighter around yourself. The sidewalks were busy with people, cars rolling lazily through the streets, their headlights casting soft glows against the pavement.
You weren’t sure how you had gotten here—how a frustrating, dead-end night had turned into this. But you didn’t hate it.
In fact, you were enjoying every minute of it.
The streets of Metropolis buzzed with an early-night energy. Neon signs flickered, storefronts cast golden light onto the pavement, and the hum of conversation from passing pedestrians filled the air. You walked close to Clark, close enough that your arms brushed with every step.
The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but there was something trusted about it—something new.
You risked a glance at him. He was looking straight ahead, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders relaxed. But when the light of a passing car swept over his face, you caught the way his jaw tensed slightly, like he was thinking about something.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” you asked.
He turned to you, his expression unreadable for a split second before softening into something reassuring. “Yeah. Why?”
You lifted a shoulder, tucking your hands into your coat pockets as you shrugged. “Just… getting stood up sucks. I figured you’d be at least a little upset.”
Clark exhaled a small huff of amusement. “I mean, yeah, I guess I could be. But I’d rather not waste my night sulking about it.”
You nodded, accepting his answer. But then, after a few seconds, you heard him add, quieter, “Besides… I’m having a nice time.”
Your stomach did an embarrassing little flip.
You kept your gaze forward, pretending like those words didn’t sink into you in a way that left you warm despite the cool night air.
“Yeah,” you murmured. “Me too.”
The conversation lulled again, but this time, it felt different. More aware. More weighted.
And then Clark suddenly spoke.
“Can I show you something?”
You blinked at him, surprised by the shift. “Uh… sure?”
He smiled, but there was something almost shy about it, something hesitant like he was second-guessing himself. “It’s not far.”
Curious, you followed his lead, stepping off the main sidewalk as he turned down a quieter street, where the glow of streetlights gave way to something softer, something greener.
Within moments, you realized where you were headed.
The city park.
You’d been here plenty of times before—Metropolis had its fair share of green spaces, a welcome contrast to the steel and glass of the skyline—but Clark led you past the more well-known paths, past the benches where couples sat talking in hushed tones, past the fountain that usually served as a meeting place.
Eventually, he guided you toward a narrow, gated pathway, tucked between a stretch of trees. He reached for the gate, pausing before glancing back at you.
“It’s, uh… it’s kind of a secret spot.”
You tilted your head, grinning. “Secret?”
His lips quirked. “Sort of. I mean, it’s public, but not many people know about it.”
“Riiight... totally not a cheesy thing to say.”
“Just, come look.”
You watched as he pushed the gate open, stepping aside to let you through first.
You hesitated for only a second before slipping past him, your shoulder brushing lightly against his chest as you stepped inside.
And then you saw it.
A sheltered little garden.
It wasn’t grand, but it was beautiful. A small, enclosed space, with an arched trellis overhead wrapped in evergrowing vines. Flowers bloomed in neatly arranged clusters, their colours muted under the soft glow of the moon and city. A narrow stone pathway curved through the space, leading to a bench beneath another canopy of vines.
The whole thing felt… unreal. Quiet. Removed from the city entirely.
You turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. “This is…” You exhaled, searching for the right word. “Wow.”
Clark smiled, stepping further in behind you. “I found it by accident a while ago. It’s kind of nice, right?”
You let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah. Kinda nice is an understatement, Smallville.”
The two of you lingered in the quiet, the city’s distant sounds muffled by the greenery around you. And when you looked at Clark again, you caught it—
That brief hesitation. That barely-there glance.
Something unreadable flickered across his face before he cleared his throat, looking away, suddenly busying himself with adjusting his glasses.
It was awkward. Endearing.
And for some reason, it made your heart beat just a little faster.
You swallowed, forcing yourself to break the silence. “So, what, you bring all your failed dates here?” you teased lightly.
Clark huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “No. Just you.”
His voice was light, teasing back—but something about it stuck with you.
Just you.
You had no idea what to say to that.
So instead, you just smiled. And hoped the darkness hid the warmth rising in your face.
Clark shifted beside you, tucking his hands deeper into his pockets, gaze flickering toward the night sky. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Just... don’t tell Lois about this place.”
You turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Or else it’ll be on the front cover of the Daily Planet and it won’t be so secret anymore.”
You snorted. “Figured.”
Then, almost immediately, your lips twisted into a frown. “Ugh, you know what? I’m still kinda pissed off with Lois.”
Clark’s eyebrows lifted. “Lois? What—why?”
You sighed, rubbing at your temple. “She was the one who arranged the whole meeting with the lawyer today. My source. She forgot to confirm or something and cancelled last minute. Can you believe it?”
Clark blinked. “Not really.”
“Yeah, me neither. She’s probably got caught up with Superman again or something—I don’t know.”
Clark’s head tilted slightly, brows drawing together. “Sorry? Superman?”
You waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, it’s just an inside joke between us and our friends. Since she’s so close with the guy, we joke that whenever she’s acting weird, it’s because of him.”
Clark let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Does she usually?”
“Not really. But we like to watch her squirm when we bring it up.” You smirked. “Anyway, I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She’s been acting weird all week.”
Clark hummed, his gaze thoughtful. “Yeah, I noticed that too. When she was telling me about this date, she just... wasn’t herself, I guess. Left a lot of things in the dark.”
Your steps faltered slightly, your brows knitting together as something in his words made your stomach twist. You turned to look at him, trying to piece together the implications of what he was saying.
“Wait—” You exhaled, mind racing. “Lois set you up?”
Clark slowed as well, blinking as if he’d only just realized you hadn’t put it together yet. “Uh… yeah?” He frowned slightly. “I did say my date was a friend of hers.”
“Right.” You blinked, mind catching up. “Sorry, I must’ve forgotten.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
The sounds of the city—distant honking, the chatter of pedestrians, the hum of neon signs—faded into a dull blur. It was as if the entire world had taken a collective breath and was holding it, waiting for the two of you to catch up.
Your lips parted, but no words came out. The pieces clicked together—Lois arranging your meeting, forgetting to confirm, being strangely vague about the details.
Oh.
Oh.
Your stomach flipped as realization crashed over you like a tidal wave.
Clark’s eyes widened just a fraction, his breath hitching. And then, almost at the same time—
“…No way.”
You exhaled a quiet, incredulous laugh, shaking your head as your mind reeled. Clark let out a chuckle of his own, one hand running through his hair, his fingers ruffling the strands at the back of his head. His ears—just barely visible under the glow of a nearby streetlight—had turned the faintest shade of pink again.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
You just looked at each other, as if confirming that, yes, this was real, and yes, Lois Lane had absolutely just played matchmaker.
“Well,” Clark finally said, voice warm, laced with amusement. “At least we won’t have to spend the whole night getting to know each other.”
You laughed, shaking your head in disbelief. “Yeah. Guess not.”
The tension in your shoulders, the nervous energy, the awkwardness of the night—it all melted into something else entirely. Something softer. Something that felt… kind of nice.
Clark was still smiling, his blue eyes bright behind his glasses, and you had to resist the urge to look away, to keep from giving away the way your heart had started beating just a little faster.
He shifted, his hands slipping into his pockets as he glanced down for a second before looking back up at you.
And then, with just the slightest hint of something almost timid in his voice, he asked—
“Can I be honest?”
You tilted your head. “Sure.”
“When Lois was telling me about the date... I was hoping it would be you.”
“…Really?”
Clark nodded, lips pressing together like he was debating whether he should keep going. But then, in a quieter voice, he admitted, “Yeah... It was the only reason I agreed. And when I saw you at the restaurant, I was really excited—until you told me you were there for work.”
You let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Sorry I let you down.”
His head snapped up. “No.” He shook his head, quickly, almost too quickly. “You didn’t.”
Your stomach flipped.
“I still had fun,” he added, a little sheepishly.
You chewed the inside of your cheek, heart beating faster than you’d like to admit. “You should’ve just said something.”
Clark exhaled a laugh, glancing down again. “I know. I just... I’m not really good at this stuff.”
You smiled, nudging him lightly with your shoulder. “You’re doing pretty good so far. Had me swept off my feet.”
“Yeah?” he asked, his voice just a little lower, a little softer.
“Oh yeah.”
A pause. A lingering look.
And then—
“We should do this again.” His lips curled, a little nervous but hopeful. “On purpose next time.”
You grinned widely, feeling warmth spread through you, from your chest to the very tips of your fingers.
But you don't know the half of the shit that you put me through
⋆˚࿔ᝰ.ᐟ Pairing: dick grayson x f!reader
⋆˚࿔ᝰ.ᐟ Summary: Dick loves you. He really does. But you don’t like the way he copes with his insecurities. He shapes you into a perfect image and turns your feelings into a joke at the same time.
⋆˚࿔ᝰ.ᐟ Warnings: angst with a bittersweet ending, boyfriend!dick grayson, ooc dick (for the plot), yearning dick, dick is a toxic asshole here, insecure reader and insecure dick, everyone glazing nightwing here including reader. Toxic side of dating a man like him. Lots of dialogue (~50%). I tried to put some giggles between them.
⋆˚࿔ᝰ.ᐟ Song: Norman Fucking Rockwell by Lana Del Rey
⋆˚࿔ᝰ.ᐟ Word count: 9,9k
The apartment smelled like expensive cologne, takeout, and the vanilla candle Dick insisted made the place feel more like home.
You stood in the doorway for a second too long, keys still hanging from your fingers, trying to gather enough strength to take your shoes off without collapsing face-first onto the hardwood floor.
The day had been catastrophic in the kind of unimpressive, deeply adult way that made it worse. Your boss had spent the entire afternoon correcting mistakes that weren’t yours in that fake-patient voice that somehow felt more humiliating than yelling. Your coffee had spilled over the paperwork you stayed late to finish. One of your coworkers had asked if you were “doing okay lately” with enough concern in her voice to make you realize you apparently looked as bad as you felt.
And then there was the subway ride home. Some guy was staring too long. Someone shoved into your shoulder hard enough to almost knock you over. The overwhelming urge to cry over absolutely nothing by the time you climbed the building stairs.
You looked… not well, honestly. Hair half-fallen from its clip. Makeup separating around your eyes. Dick’s oversized hoodie hanging off one shoulder because you’d stolen it in the morning after deciding none of your clothes looked right anymore. Not after all his little comments.
You’d barely stepped fully inside when Dick’s voice floated from the living room. “Well, damn.”
There he was, stretched across the couch in gray sweats, one arm behind his head, phone glowing against his palm. Pretty enough to make you resent him for a moment. His eyes flicked over you once. “Rough day, baby?” he asked, lips twitching. “You look like work chewed you up and spit you back out.”
You stared at him while Dick grinned at whatever was on his phone again before tossing it onto his chest.
And maybe on another day, you would’ve laughed. Maybe on another day, you would’ve walked over dramatically and collapsed on top of him while he kissed your temple and told you the city was cruel to beautiful women.
But today your bones hurt. Today you’d spent the entire commute fantasizing about coming home and being taken care of for five fucking minutes. So when he didn’t move immediately, something in you soured quietly. “You could at least pretend to like me,” you muttered, dropping your bag by the door.
Dick blinked once before sitting up slightly. “Hey,” he said, softer now. “C’mere.”
You hated how immediate your body’s reaction was. Like some pathetic flower turning toward sunlight. He opened his arms and you walked into them automatically, exhaustion outweighing pride. Dick pulled you down onto the couch between his legs, warm hands sliding under the hoodie to rub your waist.
“There she is,” he murmured against your shoulder. “That bad?”
You let out a laugh that sounded dangerously close to a breakdown. “My boss hates me, I think I’m getting fired. Emily asked if I was on drugs because I forgot to answer an email. Some man coughed directly into my face today. And I haven’t eaten since eleven.”
Dick made a face. “Okay, that one’s criminal.”
You snorted despite yourself. That was the problem with him. Dick could make you laugh when you wanted to stay angry. He knew exactly how to tilt situations away from confrontation, how to smooth rough edges with charm and warmth until you almost felt silly for being upset in the first place.
His fingers brushed your hair back gently before he frowned. “You wore this to work?”
You automatically looked down at your outfit. Loose jeans. One of his hoodies. Sneakers. “I was tired.”
“Nah, I know, I just…” His hand squeezed your hip absentmindedly. “You’re too pretty to hide under all this, baby.”
There it was. Not cruel enough to call out. Not mean enough to fight over. Just another tiny comment placed delicately on top of all the others.
“I like your hair down more.”
“That skirt hugs you better.”
“You should wear lighter makeup.”
“Don’t go drinking alone with your coworkers.”
Never commands. Never enough to make him the bad guy. Those were suggestions. Suggestions from Dick Grayson, who always looked unfairly beautiful standing next to you in public, effortlessly charming while women stared openly at him like they’d forgotten shame existed.
And God, he was friendly. That was the worst part. His phone buzzed constantly—women from galas, old classmates, friends, coworkers, neighbors. Dick answered everyone with the same easy affection that made people fall in love with him accidentally.
“Sorry I don’t meet your standards like the women in your phone do,” you snapped, already embarrassed the second the words left your mouth. Dick had looked up so fast you almost regretted saying it.
“What?”
“The girls constantly texting you,” you muttered. “The ones you flirt with without realizing.”
“I don’t flirt—”
“You do.”
He stared at you for a second, genuinely confused instead of defensive, which somehow made it worse. “Baby,” he’d laughed softly, hugging you like this was ridiculous, like you were being cute instead of serious. “You think I’d ever cheat on you?”
No. That was the horrible thing. You didn’t.
You knew with terrifying certainty that Dick would come home to you every night. He would kiss your forehead half-asleep. He would hold your hand under restaurant tables. He would remember your coffee order and warm your side of the bed before you got in.
He loved you. But sometimes love from Dick felt less like being seen and more like being carefully arranged.
Like he loved you best when you fit neatly into his life — smiling at his jokes, wearing the clothes he lingered on too long in stores, letting him redirect every difficult conversation into affection before it became inconvenient.
And the worst part was that he never sounded manipulative. Just earnest, like he genuinely believed reassurance should fix everything.
So when your face stayed tense in his arms, Dick only sighed fondly, thumb brushing beneath your eye. “You’re thinking too hard again,” he said lightly.
Then he kissed your forehead. Like that solved everything. You stayed there against his chest while the apartment settled into the evening around you. The TV played quietly somewhere in the background, forgotten. Dick’s fingers kept tracing lazy patterns against your waist beneath the hoodie, absentminded and warm.
That was the problem too. Everything with him was comforting enough to make you question your own unhappiness.
Because how could you sit there in the arms of a man who looked at you like that and still feel lonely?
Dick tilted his head down slightly. “You’re being weirdly quiet.”
“Tired.”
“Mhm.” His nose brushed your temple teasingly. “Wanna order something disgustingly unhealthy and rot on the couch with me?”
You almost said yes automatically. That was another thing you’d started noticing lately — how quickly your feelings disappeared around him. Or rather, how quickly he made them disappear. Not by fixing them. Just by smoothing over them until you felt dramatic for having them in the first place. Like putting a blanket over a crack in the wall instead of repairing it.
Your eyes drifted toward his phone still lying on the couch cushion. A girl’s name lit briefly across the screen before disappearing again.
Dick didn’t even look. Of course he didn’t. To him, there was nothing to hide.
Something in your chest twisted tiredly. “Dick.”
“Mm?” You swallowed.
It suddenly felt ridiculous. Embarrassing, even. Like standing up in public only to realize everyone else understood the joke except you.
But you were so tired. Tired at work. Tired in your own head. Tired of feeling like you were slowly becoming someone smaller inside this relationship.
“I think…” You paused, immediately wanting to take it back. “I think sometimes you make me feel bad about myself.”
Dick blinked. Then, unbelievably, he smiled a little. “Baby,” he laughed under his breath, like you’d accused him of secretly being a serial killer. “What?”
“I’m serious.”
“I know, I just—” He shook his head once, amused confusion all over his face. “Where is this coming from?”
You pulled away from him slightly now, enough to see his expression fully. And there it was. Genuine (or not so) disbelief.
“You’re constantly commenting on how I look,” you said quietly. “What I wear. My makeup. My friends. Everything.”
Dick frowned immediately. “I do not comment on everything.”
“You do.”
“I compliment you.”
“You also compare me.”
His eyebrows pulled together. “To whom?”
“The women you follow. The women in your texts. The girls you point out without realizing it.”
Dick stared at you for another second before exhaling a short laugh through his nose. “Okay, first of all, I literally do not point women out—”
“You told me that the bartender had a nice dress and then spent a week trying to convince me to buy one exactly like it.”
“That’s because you’d look hot in it,” he said immediately, like this helped his case.
You just looked at him. Dick’s expression faltered slightly. “What?” he asked.
“You hear yourself, right?”
“Yeah?” He sat up more now, one arm resting along the back of the couch. “You’re acting like I’m forcing you to wear stuff.”
“You make comments until I feel stupid not changing things.”
“That is not true.”
“It is.”
“No, baby, c’mon.” He reached for your knee again. “You know I think you’re beautiful.”
Your throat tightened. Because he did. That was what made this conversation impossible.
If Dick were cruel, this would’ve been easier. If he yelled or insulted you or acted intentionally controlling, maybe you wouldn’t feel like you were going insane trying to explain why his behavior hurt.
But instead, he looked at you with soft blue eyes and touched you like something precious while slowly rearranging parts of you without noticing.
“You don’t get it,” you said finally. “You say things so casually and then act like they mean nothing. But after enough times, they do mean something.”
Dick rubbed a hand over his jaw, looking more confused than defensive now. “Okay, tell me one thing I said that was so horrible.”
You laughed softly at that. Not because it was funny. Because somehow he still thought that was the point. “It’s not one thing.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s all the little things together.”
He leaned back against the couch cushions with a sigh dramatic enough to almost be playful. “Jesus, you’re making me sound evil.”
“I didn’t say evil.”
“Well, you’re definitely making me sound like some manipulative asshole boyfriend and I gotta be honest, sweetheart, that’s a little insulting.”
There it was again. That twist. Suddenly you were comforting him. Your feelings somehow becoming an accusation he had to defend himself from instead of something he should listen to.
You looked down at your hands quietly. Dick noticed immediately. His tone softened at once. “Hey.”
His fingers hooked under your chin gently. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That sad face.” He smiled a little. “Kills me.”
Somehow, somehow, even now he was turning this into flirtation. “I’m trying to talk to you seriously.”
“I am listening seriously.”
“No, you’re trying to make me calm down.”
“Well, yeah.” He gave you an easy grin. “You’re upset.”
“That’s not the same thing as solving the problem, Dick.”
For the first time, silence settled between you. Dick looked at you carefully now, like he was finally realizing this wasn’t going away with kisses and charm tonight.
And maybe that scared him a little.
Because his next joke came quieter.
“So what, you want me to become ugly and antisocial?” he asked lightly. “I can do that for you. I’ll become a basement-dwelling loser. Delete Instagram. Start hissing at women in public.”
You closed your eyes briefly. Everything turned into something easy enough to survive. “You always do that,” you said quietly.
Dick’s smile faded a little. “Do what?”
“Make everything sound ridiculous so we never actually talk about it.”
“I’m literally talking about it right now.”
“No, you’re joking about it.”
“Because you’re acting like I’m some controlling psycho boyfriend.” The words landed harder than he meant them to.
You could tell immediately from the way his expression shifted afterward, like he regretted the phrasing the second it left his mouth. But instead of apologizing, Dick just leaned back deeper into the couch cushions with a tired exhale.
And somehow that almost hurt more. Like this conversation was exhausting him.
You stared at him for a second. Then slowly pulled yourself out of his lap. Dick’s hands instinctively tightened around your waist before letting go. “Baby—”
“No, it’s fine.” You stood up too fast, exhaustion making the room tilt for half a second. Your bag was still lying by the doorway where you’d dropped it earlier. One shoe was half kicked off. You suddenly felt painfully aware of how pathetic you probably looked right now — tired, emotional, standing in the middle of a luxury apartment arguing with your beautiful boyfriend about feelings he clearly thought were irrational.
Dick sat up straighter. “C’mon, don’t do that.”
“Do what?” you asked tiredly.
“Pull away like I just called you insane.”
“You kinda did.”
“I said you were acting like I’m controlling.”
“You are controlling sometimes.”
His jaw tightened slightly at that. Dick didn’t really do explosive anger. His version was subtler. Defensive. Hurt. Like every criticism felt strangely unfair to him because he loved you so much already, so how could he possibly be doing damage too?
“That’s crazy,” he said with a short laugh. “You know that, right?”
You felt something in your chest sink quietly. Not because he raised his voice. Because he sounded sincere. “You don’t even hear yourself.”
“No, you don’t hear yourself,” Dick shot back now, frustration finally slipping into his voice. “I compliment my girlfriend and suddenly I’m emotionally manipulating her?”
“It’s not just compliments!”
“Then what do you want from me?” he asked, spreading his hands now. “Seriously. Because this whole conversation feels like you decided I’m the bad guy before I even opened my mouth.”
Your hurt becoming his accusation. “I didn’t say you were the bad guy.”
“You’re sitting here psychoanalyzing me.” Dick looked away first, rubbing a hand over his mouth briefly. “You know what I mean,” he muttered.
Dick always convinced himself that warmth excused everything. As long as he was affectionate, smiling, loving — then nothing he did could really wound you deeply.
Meanwhile, you were standing there feeling smaller by the month. “You know what’s funny?” you said softly.
Dick looked back up.
“I don’t even think you notice when you hurt me anymore.”
His expression immediately fell. “Okay,” he said quietly. “That’s not fair.”
You laughed weakly. “See?”
“What does that mean?”
“It means every single time I tell you something hurts my feelings, your first reaction is defending yourself instead of listening.”
“That is not true.”
“It literally is happening right now.”
Dick opened his mouth. Then his shoulders slumped instead. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, leaning his head back against the couch. “So now I’m a terrible boyfriend.”
You stared at him in disbelief. “No one said that.”
“You’re implying it.”
“I’m trying to tell you how I feel!”
“And I’m trying to understand why my girlfriend suddenly thinks I’m some asshole who destroys her self-esteem.”
His voice cracked slightly around the frustration now. Dick genuinely sounded hurt. Like he couldn’t understand how the relationship he’d been trying so hard to make beautiful had somehow become painful for you too.
But you were too exhausted to comfort him through your own sadness tonight.
“You know what?” you said quietly, grabbing your bag from the floor. “Forget it.”
Dick sat up immediately. “Oh my God, don’t do that.”
“I’m tired.”
“So am I now!”
The apartment went silent. You both froze slightly at his tone. Dick blinked first, clearly realizing how awful that sounded. “Baby, I didn’t mean—”
“No, it’s okay.” Your voice came out frighteningly calm now. “I get it.”
“You don’t.”
“I do.” You moved toward the hallway, but Dick stood up quickly from the couch.
“Can you stop walking away during serious conversations?”
You actually laughed at that. A small, disbelieving sound. “Are we having a serious conversation?” you asked. “Because honestly it kinda feels like you’ve been arguing with yourself for the last ten minutes.”
Dick’s face hardened in that wounded way pretty people had when they weren’t used to failing socially. “I’m trying here.”
“No,” you said softly. “You’re trying to win.” And for the first time that night, Dick had absolutely nothing charming to say back.
The silence after was raw in a quiet, ugly way. Dick stood near the couch watching you move around the apartment with slow, exhausted motions while the argument hung between you like something damp and heavy. The city lights spilled weakly through the windows behind him, catching against the tense line of his shoulders.
For once, he wasn’t talking. You’d seen Dick hurt before. Bruised, exhausted, bleeding, furious. But this was different. He looked strangely young standing there barefoot in sweatpants, hands flexing uselessly at his sides like he wanted to reach for you and knew he shouldn’t. Like a child realizing too late that he’d pushed too hard.
You grabbed your charger from the kitchen counter without looking at him.
Behind you, Dick swallowed hard. “So what,” he said finally, voice rougher now. “You’re just leaving?”
“I’m going to bed.”
“That’s basically leaving.” You closed your eyes briefly. Even now he somehow made it sound like you were abandoning him.
“I can’t do this tonight, Dick.”
“Yeah, because apparently I’m this horrible fucking boyfriend now.”
Your grip tightened around the charger. You turned around slowly. “Why does every conversation about my feelings become about protecting yours?”
Dick looked genuinely stung by that.
His face twisted slightly — not angry, not cold. Just wounded in that ugly, open way people got when they stopped performing for a second. “Because you’re saying things that make me feel like shit too,” he admitted quietly. Dick looked down at the floor briefly before laughing once under his breath, humorless. “I don’t even know what you want me to say anymore.”
“I wanted you to listen.”
“I am listening.”
“No,” you said tiredly. “You’re waiting for your turn to explain why none of this is actually your fault.”
Dick’s mouth pressed into a line immediately, eyes flicking away from yours. And suddenly he looked pathetic in the heartbreaking way beautiful people sometimes did when they lost control of a situation they thought love alone could manage. Because Dick loved loudly. But this required him to admit he could hurt someone without meaning to. And he didn’t know how to survive that.
“Can you stop talking like I’m some manipulative asshole?” he asked softly.
You stared at him for a moment. Then shook your head a little. “See? You’re doing it again.”
Dick’s expression crumpled slightly at that. “Baby…” He took half a step toward you before stopping himself immediately, arms folding over his chest instead like he physically didn’t know what to do with them.
“I’m trying,” he said. “I swear to God I’m trying here.”
Your exhaustion suddenly felt crushing. “Dick, you’re trying to defend yourself.”
“No, I’m trying to make you understand I love you.”
“You think that automatically fixes everything.”
His jaw tightened. “Well, sorry for loving my girlfriend, I guess.” Dick scrubbed a hand over his face harshly before looking at you again, eyes glassy now with frustration more than tears.
“Please don’t walk away mad at me.”
You looked at him quietly. Dick stood there helplessly beneath your gaze, pretty face twisted into that bitter, unhappy grimace, shoulders tense like he was bracing for impact.
But he still couldn’t stop defending himself.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said quickly. “That’s what I’m trying to say. You’re acting like I’ve been sitting around trying to ruin your self-esteem or something.”
“I never said that.”
“But you keep talking like I’m toxic.”
“You keep refusing to hear me.”
“I am hearing you—”
“No,” you interrupted softly. “You’re hearing accusations.”
That shut him up. And for the first time all evening, Dick looked genuinely lost. Not charming enough to fix it. Not smooth enough to redirect it. Not lovable enough to immediately erase it. Just a man standing in the middle of his expensive apartment watching the person he loved pull further away from him while he accidentally helped it happen.
Sometime after midnight, the bedroom door creaked open quietly. You were half asleep already, curled beneath the blankets with damp hair spread across the pillow, body heavy from the shower and emotional exhaustion. The apartment had gone silent hours ago.
You’d heard Dick moving around the kitchen at some point, heard the TV turn on and off again, footsteps pacing once or twice outside the bedroom door like he wanted to come in and couldn’t work up the courage.
Now the mattress dipped carefully behind you. You kept your eyes closed. For a moment, Dick didn’t touch you. You could feel him there though — the warmth of him, the hesitation. Like he was waiting for permission that normally came naturally.
Then slowly, cautiously, his arm slid around your waist. His face pressed against your shoulder blades, and you immediately felt tiny uneven breaths.
Your tired brain took a second to understand before realization hit. He was crying. Not pretty crying either.
Dick was ugly crying into the back of your shirt trying desperately not to make noise.
You felt his shoulders shaking against you as his hand stroked weakly up your arm like he didn’t know what else to do with himself. “Dick,” you mumbled sleepily, voice rough. “Stop…”
“I know,” he choked out instantly. “I know, I’m sorry.”
His voice sounded wrecked. You’d seen him emotional before — frustrated, angry, overwhelmed — but this was different. Dick sounded like someone had cracked him open somewhere private.
His grip tightened slightly around your waist. “I’m trying so hard not to make this about me right now,” he admitted in one miserable breath, words tumbling together. “I swear to God I’m trying but I just— fuck, hearing you say I make you feel small—”
His voice broke embarrassingly hard on the last word. Dick inhaled shakily behind you. “Okay,” he whispered quickly to himself. “No, okay. See? That’s not— this isn’t about me feeling bad. I’m doing it again.”
Another shaky breath. “I’m sorry.”
The sincerity in his words hurt. Not because it magically fixed everything, but because Dick rarely sat in discomfort long enough to apologize properly. Usually, he redirected things before they reached this point. Kissed you until you laughed. Made food. Distracted you. Wrapped affection around the problem until it dissolved temporarily.
But now there was nowhere left to run.
His fingers trembled slightly where they rested against your stomach. “I didn’t realize I was doing that to you,” he whispered. “I swear I didn’t.”
You finally turned your head slightly toward him. Dick’s face was buried halfway into the pillow behind you, eyes red and wet, curls messy from dragging his hands through them over and over. His nose was pink. Tears still clung stupidly to his lashes while he tried so hard to hold himself together and failed completely. He looked like a terrified man who realized too late that love alone wasn’t enough to keep someone from hurting beside him.
“You wouldn’t listen to me,” you said quietly.
Dick shut his eyes immediately, as if the words physically hit him. “I know.”
“You kept making jokes.”
“I know.”
“You kept acting like I was accusing you instead of talking to you.”
Another awful little sob escaped him before he covered his face briefly with his hand in humiliation. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered thickly. “That sounds so bad when you say it out loud.”
“It felt bad.”
That one made him cry harder. Actually harder. You felt him curl closer behind you instinctively, forehead pressing against your shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated helplessly. “I’m so sorry, baby.”
And even now he was trying so hard not to turn it toward himself. You could hear him catching the impulse in real time.
Because every few sentences he’d start slipping:
“I just hate thinking you see me like—”
then stop himself.
Or:
“I never wanted to become—” then cut the sentence off sharply before it could become about his guilt instead of your hurt.
It was almost painful watching him try.
“I think…” Dick swallowed thickly. “I think I got too comfortable assuming you’d understand me no matter what.”
You stayed quiet, listening.
“And I think I kept hearing criticism instead of hearing that you were unhappy.” His hand smoothed shakily over your waist again. “You shouldn’t have to explain your feelings like they’re evidence in court,” he whispered.
Something in your chest softened painfully at that. Finally, he was listening instead of defending. “I don’t want to feel managed,” you admitted quietly into the darkness. “I don’t want to feel like I’m constantly being shaped into something easier for you to love.”
Dick made a wounded sound immediately before stopping himself again. You actually felt him physically restrain the instinct to interrupt.
Tears slipped silently down his face again while he nodded against the pillow behind you. “I can fix this,” he whispered after a long moment, voice trembling. “I can listen better than I did tonight.”
His fingers intertwined carefully with yours under the blanket. “You tell me when I’m doing it again,” he said softly. “Even if it makes me feel bad. I’ll listen.”
You finally turned a little more toward him then, enough to see his face fully in the dim light.
Dick looked exhausted, holding you carefully like he was afraid he’d already bent something too far.
You looked at him for a long moment in the dark. At the messy curls falling over his forehead. The tears were still drying on his cheeks. The stubborn way he kept holding your hand like you might disappear if he loosened his grip for even a second.
And God help you, your heart still melted for him. Because this was Dick. Beautiful, loving, impossible Dick. Your Dick!
The man your friends stared at in disbelief the first time you brought him around. The man strangers gravitated toward effortlessly. The kind of person who walked into rooms and became the center of them without trying. Women looked at him like he was hand-crafted specifically for them.
Sometimes men did too.
And out of everyone in the world, somehow he crawled into bed every night looking for you. You would be lying if you said that didn’t matter. You would be lying if part of your fear wasn’t tangled up in the knowledge that losing him would feel like fumbling something everyone else wanted desperately.
Dick kissed your shoulder softly. Then again. Small apologetic kisses against bare skin while his breathing slowly steadied behind you.
“I love you,” he whispered miserably.
You sighed quietly through your nose. “I know.”
“No, like…” He swallowed. “I really, really love you.”
The way he said it made your chest ache because it sounded less romantic and more frightened. Like love was the only defense he had left.
You turned carefully in his arms then, enough to face him properly beneath the dim bedroom light.
Dick’s eyes immediately searched your face anxiously. Your fingers brushed damp curls away from his forehead gently. “You’re such a mess,” you murmured softly.
A weak laugh escaped him at that. “Yeah,” he admitted hoarsely. “I know.”
And maybe you should’ve stayed angry longer.
Maybe this should’ve been the moment you held firm and demanded change with sharper edges instead of softening the second he looked wounded enough.
But you were tired. And Dick was devastating to love.
Especially like this — stripped down emotionally, clinging to you without charm or confidence to hide behind. “I forgive you,” you whispered finally.
Dick shut his eyes immediately. Relief moved through him so visibly that it was almost painful to watch. “Oh, thank God,” he breathed, forehead falling against yours. His arms wrapped around you tighter instantly, like his body reacted before his brain did. Dick buried his face into your neck with another shaky exhale, kissing your shoulder again and again between words.
“I’ll do better,” he promised quickly. “I mean it this time.”
This time. The words lingered quietly between you both. Because it wasn’t the first conversation like this. Maybe not even the fifth. Not always this bad. Not always tears and near-breakdowns in dark bedrooms. But enough smaller versions that you recognized the pattern now.
Dick loved like sunlight after storms. Warm and consuming and sincere enough to make you question whether the storm had even been that terrible to begin with.
You knew tomorrow morning he’d wake up determined to change. He’d listen more carefully for a few weeks. Catch himself before certain comments. Hold you softer. Watch your reactions more closely. Maybe even delete a few numbers from his phone dramatically while pretending it wasn’t a big deal.
And eventually, slowly, unconsciously…
He’d slip again. Not because he wanted to hurt you. Because this was how Dick loved when he was afraid.
Carefully possessive. Quietly shaping. Wanting reassurance without realizing he demanded it constantly through control disguised as care.
You knew it. And maybe somewhere deep down, he knew it too. But right now he just held you desperately like a man who almost lost something precious. “I’m sorry,” he whispered one more time against your skin.
Your hand rubbed slowly up and down his back. “It’s okay.” It was a big lie that came out naturally.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Finals are almost over for me and im so glad I managed to finish this fic. I wanted to write about the other (toxic) side of dating men like dick aka my own experience lmao. My type hasn’t changed since childhood, unfortunately.
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